It Always Means Nothing
by prouvaires
Summary: -"You're a liar." "We're all liars."- ArthurMorgana. A thank you present to all of you.


**Disclaimer: **I don't own Merlin. I wish I did.

**Pairing: **ArthurMorgana (I know, I finally got another one up!)

**A/N: **I swear an update for lettheflamesbegin _is _coming. This, however, is to say a heartfelt _thank you _to everyone who's been so supportive and cheered me up with lovely reviews and comments. You guys are the sweetest bunch of people I know, and as I can't meet you to give you a massive hug, I'm giving the next best thing I can think of!

You all cheered me up hugely with the most flattering comments I've had in a long while. A special thank you to the people who've told me I'm the queen of ArMor (I still maintain that I'm more like the court jester – BornToLiveForever, emerald sorceress and Whatever Makes You Break are just three of the authors who are far better than me), as you gave me this warm fuzzy feeling inside that not even mochas can reproduce.

This is to all of you, wherever you are. I hope everything goes well for you all this year. You rock. Xxx.

--

She's perfect.

(And that's all there is to it.)

He's pretending he's not watching her as she laughs and lashes out with her wooden pole, knocking Gwen onto her bottom, the wind leaving the maid's chest in a huff of surprise.

"Morgana, you ought to go gentler on your servants," he interrupts as she reaches down to help Gwen up. She's on the defensive immediately, turning towards him with the pole raised in readiness.

"Something about a pot and a kettle and one calling the other black?" she replies sweetly, sending a pointed glance in Merlin's direction. Arthur grits his teeth (in annoyance. Honestly) and leans to help Gwen to her feet.

"Ignore her," he murmurs into the servant's ear. "I'm sure it's just her _time of the month_," he adds, loud enough for her to hear. In two seconds he's lying on his back on the floor, pinned under his foster-_sister_'s (ugh, the word sticks in his throat) warm weight as she presses the pole over his chest.

"You're a prat," she tells him firmly, increasing the pressure until he bites back an (unmanly) moan of pain.

"Get off, fatso," he tells her, giving her a shove (they've got this sibling-banter-thing down to a T, wouldn't you agree?) and she tumbles off him onto the floor. He springs up immediately, grabbing the pole from Guinevere. She's just as quick as he is, though, and she knocks his feet out from under him as she scrambles to her feet.

With a roar of annoyance (and just a hint of a challenge) he launches himself at her. They tumble in a ball of flailing limbs and expletives down a grassy knell, grabbing at hair and clothes until they come to a halt, jumping apart quickly and sizing each other up.

A (surprisingly mischievous) smile comes onto her face, and he forgets to breathe for a minute. She paces slowly, ignoring Gwen and Merlin who've come to watch, circling him like a wildcat as he turns to keep her in his line of vision (he doesn't trust her in the slightest).

Suddenly she darts to the left and he swings to get a face full of sunlight. Momentarily blinded, he staggers backwards. Then she explodes into his vision and knocks him backwards, head-over-heels, into the cold water of the lake behind him.

When he resurfaces she's laughing hysterically, bent over almost double. The two servants behind her are leaning on each other in mirth, clutching their stomachs.

"You'll pay for that," he mutters, and he knows she can hear because she shoots him a challenging glare (and he's breathless because of the _cold, _seriously) and moves up to the bank of the lake.

"Oh yeah?" she retorts calmly, leaning over as he paddles closer. "You honestly thing you can get me back? You've beaten me _once _in all the times we've fought, and that was when I was – "

He cuts her off mid-sentence, exploding out of the water using a rock his searching feet have found, grabbing her around the waist and dragging her back down into the water.

She resurfaces and whatever expletive she's about to fling at him is interrupted when he splashes her and gives her a mouthful of freezing lake-water.

"Ass," she chokes out, splashing him back. Soon swearwords and cascades of water are flashing back and forth between them as a full-on water-battle commences (who cares that they're not acting their age?) until he suddenly sets off at a wild crawl towards the far shore.

"Race you!" he calls to her. With a grin, she ploughs after him. (She never could resist competition.) She's more streamlined in the water than he is. (And she plays dirty.) A hand grabs his ankle and hauls him backwards, dunking him underwater as she cuts ahead quickly, ignoring his cry of outrage as she strikes out faster towards the beach she can just make out on the opposite bank of the lake.

(And this _acting-like-children_ thing is making him wonder if maybe she's hiding just as much as he is. Problem is, she was always much better at covering things up than him.)

She wins (of course she does). He reaches the bank only seconds after her, but they're both so exhausted all they can do is flop onto the sand of the beach and pant numbly, limbs weak and trembling from exertion.

"You're such a girl," she teases him when she recovers somewhat. "You never could beat me in a swimming race, and you know it."

"That's because you cheat," he replies matter-of-factly, sitting up and shading his eyes with his hand to try to make out their starting point on the opposite shore. He can make out two figures, barely, who appear to be deep in conversation. Next to him, she chuckles softly (it's his favourite sound, second only to the sound of her name).

"How else is a girl supposed to get her way?"

"By being nice?" he suggests (stupidly), and she laughs louder.

"That doesn't work. I tried it once."

"You don't need to be nice," he tells her truthfully, collapsing down onto his front and reaching forward to toy with a small purple flower growing at the edge of the beach. "Men fall over themselves to do things for you."

She grins and settles down next to him, poking him in the side with her elbow.

"Jealous?"

"Of course not," he replies (too quickly), and she smirks. He glances down at her to find her eyes closed, her head turned slightly to the side so the sun's rays can wash over her pale cheeks. Her long wet hair is spread out all around her, sand crusted in it, and her lithe body in the man's tunic and trousers she's wearing is sprawled out carelessly.

"You're a liar," she murmurs, and his eyes flash up from her legs to her face to find her (sinfully green) eyes watching him, amusement (and something deeper) sparkling in them.

"We're all liars," he replies quietly, and she laughs (it sounds a little forced, but that's just because he knows her _oh-so-_well).

"Yeah, but you suck the worst."

He grins and tears the flower from the ground, tickling her nose with its petals.

"Stop with the compliments already," he teases, and she blinks in annoyance as she bats his hand away. He tucks the little flower easily behind her ear and her fingers fly up to caress the petals as he withdraws his hand, feeling a little foolish.

"You know," he says suddenly (grasping at straws, much?), "you kind of look like a wilderin from this angle."

(Because, the thing is, there's this super-thick line between them and he's worried because they're shuffling further and further over it.)

"Moment ruined," she breathes quietly, and then she tackles him again, rolling him over and over in the sand until it's down their clothes and scratching in awkward places.

"Ow, Morgana," he complains hotly (covering up how nice it feels to have her so close) and shakes his tunic out. A small shower of sand rains down, and she grins.

"You need some help with that?" she asks, and suddenly her fingers are dancing up and down his sides. (It's ironic because most noble princes have memorable weaknesses like personal loyalty or hubris. And Arthur? Arthur is ticklish. _Extremely _ticklish. And Morgana's never hesitated to take advantage of this particular weakness.)

"Stop … please …" he begs, gasping for air, tears leaking down his cheeks from laughter. She's laughing almost as hard as he is. She's sitting on his stomach, pinning him down easily (when being tickled he's helpless), her hands making a trembling mushball out of him.

"Will you do whatever I dare you to if I stop?" she challenges happily as he writhes helplessly beneath her. Wordlessly he nods, squirming desperately. With a smirk, she releases him. He scoots backwards hurriedly, gulping down lungfuls of air gratefully.

"I dare you to go skinny-dipping in the lake," she announces with a snigger. His eyes snap up to meet hers.

"But it's cold in there."

"Thank you, captain obvious," she replies. "You promised. And I know that you're a man of honour, so you _have _to do it."

"This is just an excuse to see me naked, isn't it?" he retorts quickly. (Is she _blushing_?)

"Aw, are you scared?" she teases mercilessly. (If she is blushing she's doing a mighty good job of pretending she isn't.) "Come on, brothers and sisters bathe together all the time. And isn't that what we are?"

(Is it really possible for someone so young to sound so bitter?)

His eyes meet hers and there's challenge and insecurity and something that looks like (but can't be, surely) _desire _lurking in their green depths.

"Fine," he says (hey, it sounded as blasé as he hoped it would. That's nice) and pulls his shirt easily over his head. "Like what you see?" he asks smoothly, playing her at her own game.

"Too much cheese," she tells him, dragging her gaze away from his exposed chest (she's doing impressively well so far) and managing to make it look like she'd been examining his waistline.

He steps out of his boots and her eyes catch his again. She stops chewing her lip as soon as his (_oh-_so) blue eyes flash down to watch, and her chin comes up in that way he hates (loves).

She's waiting, and suddenly every muscle in his body is tense.

"If I take my trousers off, you have to come in too," he says suddenly. She shakes her head adamantly.

"Nu uh. That wasn't part of the deal."

"Well I just made it a part."

"Screw you."

"In your dreams."

She blushes (actually _blushes_) and turns her head away. "Fine," she says in a whisper, and before he has time to believe what he's seeing she's pulling her tunic over her head and slipping out of her trousers.

She's in the water before he can react, her hair swirling around her and cloaking her nakedness as she waits, challenging him with every raised eyebrow.

"You're not _scared,_ are you?" she asks with fake-innocence, her (mind-fucking) green eyes bright.

(Actually, he's just busy being pissed off with himself because it was his first – and probably last – chance to see her naked and he was so busy being surprised he forgot to _look_.)

"Never," he shoots back quickly, whipping his trousers off and diving in quickly next to her, gasping at the coldness of the water. "Heart of a lion, remember?"

She smirks and paddles lazily deeper.

"One of those really old, doddery lions that hangs around at the back of the pride looking after the cubs."

"I hate children," he replies, and she tilts her head to the side in inquisitiveness.

"So if you had a child you would hate it?" she asks (and she's honestly curious, not just screwing with him).

"Depends who I had a child with," he tells her, and she laughs.

"If it was with Gwen?" she inquires (he's imagining the hurt in her tone, surely?) and he shrugs.

"Probably. She's a bit of a complainer."

She beams like he's just explained that the sun shines for her every day and then suddenly her expression is more guarded. (And no-one else but him would ever notice that.)

"What about if it was with me?"

He studies her (down-turned) face carefully, his eyes searching her expression. He's (completely) unsure what she wants to hear. But for some reason he feels like this is a chance and even if it's not he's going to grab it with both hands (heart of a lion, remember?) and so her reaches out and tilts her chin upwards.

"I would love it more than the world," he tells her honestly, and her eyes snap into his.

"Truly?" she breathes (hopefully), and his lips fasten onto hers just like that. (Guess they're just going to pretend that line between brotherandsister never existed.) She sighs and her mouth parts against his, her hands sliding up around his (bare) neck and into his (wet) hair and maybe this is what heaven feels like.

She's perfect.

(But the two of them together is even more perfect.)

--

**A/N: **Please no favouriting without reviewing. I had a pretty craptacular day, so I needed to write some light-hearted banter to make sure I didn't make everyone else depressed!


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